I'm not a huge football fan. Well ok, I'm not a football fan at all. There was a time, however, when my son played football. I attended most of his home games, and spent most of my time in the concession stand, peeking out every now and then to see the score, or sitting up on the hill that overlooks the football field, shivering under my school blanket and cringing every time someone got hit, straining to see the bottom of the pile and hoping that my son's white football number wasn't crushed into the mud. Somehow he survived all five years without an injury, and I breathed a sigh of relief that the game was over.
At least once or twice a year, however, I make the effort to attend a game. Last Friday, at homecoming, my daughter was asked to assist the pep band with playing drums. I stayed over at school and supervised a handful of junior-high boys as they played computer games in the library. At seven o'clock, we all headed out to the field.
The sun was just setting behind the big hill, as we walked through the gate and smelled the burgers grilling. The evening was cool, but not cold; the team we played was mercifully easy, and there were happy shouts of camaraderie everywhere. All the younger children ran about on the sidelines...involved in little games of their own making, mostly footballesque ones. Every now and then, whenever our team scored a touchdown, we were treated to the raucous blaring of a boastful, obnoxious-sounding semi-truck horn. (Thanks to the foresight of one of our equally strident fans)I walked around saying hi to people, and catching up on what their lives were like now. When Turtle arrived, at halftime, the game was really over already. We sat up on the hill by our grandchildren and our son-in-law. Zaya was enjoying the contents of a Pixi stick and Mim was just smiling in great glee.
Ah football.
